White Apache's Woman

345 Pages·2016·1.14 MB·English

by  Henke Shirl

White Apache’s Woman
Shirl Henke
PART I
THE PLAYERS
Chapter One
Spanish Louisiana, 1797
What an idiotic way to die. Santiago Quinn wondered if death would claim him
or the haughty Spanish Creole who faced him with such venom in his cold black
eyes. The Dueling Oaks sheltered them with vast outstretched limbs, holding the
chill morning fog at bay. He awaited instructions to pace off the requisite ten
strides. The elderly Don Alonzo went through the traditional appeal to call off
the duel. Useless. Philipe Castal was determined to avenge his sister's honor
against the calumny of Colorado Quinn's son.
''I should have known the spawn of a madman would prefer the barbarity of
firearms to civilized French foils," Philipe said contemptuously. He was smaller
and slighter than his brother Raoul and tried to compensate with an air of
superiority.
"I spent two years in Paris, Philipe," Santiago replied levelly as he checked his
weapon with practiced ease. Then he looked up at his foe and added, "While
there, I learned that I was a far better shot than I was a fencer."
Philipe's hands were sweating as he gripped his pistol. "Did your sire teach you
to shoot?"
Santiago only stared at him, tight lipped, silent. He taught me much more than
that.
"Your father was a baseborn Irish mercenary who ended his days in the hellish
New Mexican wilderness collecting necklaces of human ears," Raoul hissed.
"Even the savages called him Colorado Quinn."
Colorado Quinn, the bloody one. How Santiago hated the name and all the
painful memories it elicited.
He ignored both Castal brothers, picturing instead the look of dawning horror on
Juliette's face when her father had summoned her and told her the man she was
engaged to wed, known as Santiago de Aranda, was none other than the son of
the infamous New Mexican mercenary, Conal Quinn. Even as far east as New
Orleans, people knew of his bloody history and fall from royal favor.
Feeling as he did about his paternity, Santiago had used his mother's name and
the title he had inherited from her family. His father's memory he buried deep in
the back of his mind.
Santiago could feel the hatred radiate from Philipe's brother, who stood beside
their aging father. Unlike the foppish Philipe, Raoul was a Spanish soldier just
returned on leave from New Mexico. Why had he come home to reveal
Santiago's past to Juliette? Everything had been so perfect until then.
Santiago had stopped in New Orleans on his return to New Spain. He had not
intended an extended visit, until a chance encounter in the market place with a
breathtaking young woman changed his life.
Juliette Castal was barely eighteen, enchantingly innocent with big brown eyes
and dark chestnut hair. Her family was of fine old Spanish and French Creole
stock. The twenty-two-year-old Santiago was instantly infatuated. After proper
introductions were made through mutual friends, she seemed to return his ardor.
Weeks stretched into months, and wedding plans were made.
Now his dreams were ashes. To the Castal family, Santiago had gone from
honored guest to hated outcast. Raoul, the soldier, was the younger of Juliette's
two brothers, so it fell to Philipe to avenge the family honor by issuing a
challenge with a slap of his immaculate white glove.
Honor. Conal Quinn's son should possess none. "You should not even have
sullied your hand by slapping me, Philipe," Santiago said. Yet Philipe had made
the challenge, and Santiago had chosen the weapons. He was a dead shot.
They were instructed to turn their backs to each other and pace off. I will hit
Castal in his right shoulder and end it.
On the count of ten, Santiago began to turn, but just as he raised his pistol,
Philipe fired prematurely, grazing his cheek and throwing off Santiago's
aimfatally. The bullet intended for the right shoulder of his opponent struck to
the left, in Castal's heart. He crumpled to the earth as seconds and witnesses
rushed to the fallen man.
Swearing, Santiago flung his spent pistol to the ground and strode toward his
foe. Raoul and his father were clutching Philipe with all the histrionics Santiago
had come to associate with French Creoles, even if half their blood was as
Spanish as his own. His own second, an American merchant named Robert
Priestly, slipped between him and the cluster of men. A physician worked
furiously on Philipe's body, but to no effect.
"I never intended to kill the fool. He turned before the count of ten, dammit."
"Leave it be, my friend. The Castals are a powerful family in New Orleans.
Raoul has the Spanish military behind him. You've made deadly enemies, and
nothing you can say will change that." Priestly scooped up Santiago's weapon
and handed it to him. "A .67 caliber dueling pistol by Egg of London is too
expensive to leave behind."
Nodding his head, Santiago replied, "I'll probably need it. The whole family will
line up to take turns at me."
"Since dueling is illegal, you'd be wise to leave New Orleans as quickly as
possible."
Robert's words were prophetic. By the next morning, a warrant had been issued
for his arrest. Raoul Castal had half the Spanish army stationed in New Orleans
searching for a tall Spaniard with red hair and green eyes. Santiago hid out that
day in Priestly's warehouse while his friend made arrangements to smuggle him
upriver on a keelboat.
Juliette Castal sat with her small pale hands clenched into fists as her brother
paced back and forth in the library of their luxurious city house on Royal Street.
She was dry-eyed, numb with shock at all that had happened to turn her spoiled
young world upside down.
"Now that Philipe is dead, what shall we do? I had so dreamed of being
Countess of Aranda. Are you certain Santiago has no wealthno estates in Spain?"
"Pah! His father was dismissed as governor of New Mexico. The Irish whelp has
nothing. Nothing but his life, and he will not have that when I am finished."
"People are already whispering about Philipe's dishonor. We must think of a way
to extricate our family name from disgrace rather than worry about Quinn.
Otherwise I shall never find a rich husband, Raoul."
"Our brother has yet to be buried and you prate of husbands!" he screamed at
her, his black eyes gleaming with fury as he raised his hand to strike her. "You
vacuous little bitch!"
Juliette jumped up and backed away from him. "'Tis not just I, but our whole
family who will be ruined if I fail to wed advantageously," she replied petulantly.
"You chose that Irish swine, not I. You unleashed this shame on us. Think on that
when the good Creole families of the city turn away from us. What would have
happened if I had not come home on leave before you actually wed the
imposter?"
She stamped her foot in frustration. "Damn Quinn! This is all his fault."
Castal stopped pacing and studied the beautiful yet selfish young woman who
had cost his brother's life. "I will tell you what you will do, my dear." He
motioned to the writing desk. "Sit down."
Santiago reread the note from Juliette as Robert Priestly pleaded with him. "I
knew I should never have delivered her message to you. This is insane! Her
brother put her up to it. This is a trap, Santiago!"
"Juliette wants to talk with me aloneto give me a chance to explain."
Priestly sighed as he watched the tall young man comb his fingers through curly
red hair. How young and stubborn he was. "I imagine there's nothing I can do to
stop you." Santiago's clear green eyes fastened on Robert. "No, but there is one
last favor I'd ask, my friend." He withdrew a thick sheaf of papers from his coat
pocket. "I spent the day composing this letter to my family in New Mexico,
explaining what has happened."
Robert took the missive with a nod of acquiescence. "I'll see it posted first thing
tomorrow, but with the mails between here and Santa Fe being what they are,
you'll most likely arrive before your letter."
"Perhaps," was the enigmatic reply.
When Santiago reached the Castal city residence, he stood in the shadows across
the way and studied the east side of the house, watching Juliette's window. Just
as she had promised, the light in her bedroom was extinguished at midnight. He
stole across the street. In minutes he was up the gallery stairs, standing before
the floor-length open windows of her room. He waited until his eyes adjusted to
the darkness, then slipped inside.
Juliette sat in her big bed, half afraid lest anything go wrong, yet also perversely
excited by the danger as Quinn's tall figure approached.
"Julie, it is Santiago," he whispered in French as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I
did not intend to kill Philipe. If he had not fired early and spoiled my aim"
"I will hear no slander of my brother's name!" she cried.
"Please, Julie. I love you." He touched a soft chestnut curl and felt her stiffen.
"You dare sneak into my bedroom and speak of love!"
"You summoned me to your bedroom, querida," he said with rising anger. "I
would not have you soil me with so much as a touch. Be damned, Irishman!"
She had the satisfaction of seeing the stricken look on his face. Now Raoul
would spring the trap!
"Beautiful Juliette, you pledged your love so ardently to Aranda, a Spanish
nobleman. Well, take this to your cold bed from a cursed Irishman!"
His fingers slid to her shoulders, and he crushed her breasts against his chest as
his mouth savaged hers in a fierce kiss. Then he shoved her into the pillows and
walked swiftly to the doorway. She sat up, clutching the sheet to her, waiting
expectantly. Where was Raoul?
Just as Santiago stepped into the dim moonlight on the gallery, a shot rang out.
The ball lodged deeply in his side. Quinn saw the elegant blue and gold uniforms
of Raoul Castal and several of his fellow officers. Gritting his teeth against the
pain, he drew a pistol from his sash and fired it at the man advancing on him. It
struck his chest with deadly force. As his would-be assassin fell backward
against his companions, Santiago vaulted over the wrought-iron railing of the
gallery and dropped to the street below. He landed hard but kept his footing, then
began to run.
The low curses and pounding footfalls of his pursuers grew dim as he twisted
and turned through the back alleys of the city. He left a widening trail of blood
on his way to the waterfront. His only chance for survival was to find a boat at
the wharf with the name of Tennessee Pride.
The big Creek lounging against the hull of a keelboat watched the elegantly
dressed stranger stumble in the mud. Just before the white man slid into the dark
water, the Indian bestirred himself. He rolled the unconscious man over and
gazed at his face. The fellow's eyes blinked open. "I say, my good man, are you
drunk?" the Creek asked with a precise English accent.
"No, I am shot," Santiago replied in the same language. Odd, how the speaker's
cultivated voice did not match his savage appearance. It was Quinn's last thought
before blackness enveloped him.